Duck and Cover - PicFic 4/30
Apr. 30th, 2013 06:57 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
glennagirl.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
section7mfuThe story began with Stranger Things Have Happened...
Having been dispatched to San Francisco on a mission to retrieve information of an undisclosed nature, Solo and Kuryakin were now grievously devoid of not only the mission but their weapons and communicators as well. The young woman who had lured them here with promises of secret THRUSH documents had managed to bat her eyelashes and flirt until that distraction had netted her two roughed up UNCLE agents. The two thugs who worked for Veronica Revere were, in addition to being very big, wizards with a roll of duck tape.
The two top agents in the Northwestern Region sat in a cold basement of the spooky old house, wrapped up like parcels waiting to be mailed. Illya’s black jeans were dirty, his turtleneck ripped so that a bruised shoulder was exposed. He didn’t actually remember the battle, but as usual the scars were evident. His hands were behind his back, securely fastened with the aforementioned duck tape. The blond’s ankles were also wrapped tightly.
Napoleon was similarly trussed, his suit a sad and battered image of the formerly impeccably tailored garment. He couldn’t possibly be blamed for this. It was as though the enemy targeted Solo’s suits; as though they knew Waverly was watching.
“I wonder how we’re going to get out of this one, tovarisch?”
Illya glared at his partner, a scowl was not far off.
“If you had simply resisted the impulse to flirt with that woman, Napoleon… I need some sort of remote, so I can turn you off.”
“Hey, I can’t help it. Besides, you didn’t exactly refuse her flirtations, Illya. As I recall, when she sidled up next to you …”
The Russian’s blue eyes warned of an approaching storm.
“All right, that’s enough. What we need is a plan, and as I recall that is your forte’. So, do you have one?”
Napoleon attempted to feign indignation but it was no use. The ambiance was lacking.
“Not exactly, save the one where you wiggle out of your duck tape bonds and then cut me loose. Is that not what you’re going to do?”
Illya shook his head. It was always up to him. Always. And so he went to work, contorting his body so that his hands could slide beneath his rear end and legs. He managed it, although his shoulder felt oddly out of place and the process became so painful he thought he might pass out. Napoleon noted the change in his friend’s complexion, the sudden palor.
“Come on, Illya … “
Solo winced at the pain he knew Illya was experiencing. Finally the process of disengaging was completed and Illya fell back against the concrete wall.
“Are you all right? That looked like it hurt.”
Without swearing out loud, Illya convinced his partner that it had indeed hurt and if Solo so much as winked at a girl after this he might find himself in serious trouble from the Russian. Amazingly he did that without any words passing his lips.
With a great deal of effort the injured agent was able to get himself up off the floor and go in search of something to cut the tape that encased his wrists and ankles. That the search was done in a hopping fashion was the source of some amusement to his still bound partner, although he was careful to conceal it.
Finally, and with the occasional grunt of discomfort, Illya located a small hacksaw with which he cut the tape on his ankles and then, proving once again his remarkable dexterity, managed the duck tape on his wrists. Free at last, he was able to better inspect the damage to his shoulder, at least as well as he could by rotating it and feeling it with his right hand.
Napoleon waited not to patiently while this self-examination was in progress, anxious himself to be free.
“So, any time tovarisch.”
The smile was a platitude, and the Russian remembered, once again, the outrageous flirtation that had occurred just moments before the first goon threw him against the wall. That moment of impact is what was causing him so much pain at present.
“I should let you sit there while I go search the house.’
Napoleon cocked his head to one side, as though he hadn’t heard correctly.
“However, since my shoulder is quite painful and I shouldn’t like to encounter another of Miss Revere’s henchmen…”
The blond knelt down in front of his partner and with some difficulty, sawed a sufficient rip in the duck tape for Napoleon to pull it free, then repeated the process for his wrists. When the American was completely free he stood and attempted to straighten his suit. It was no use.
“I can’t believe I’m going to need to report the loss of another suit.”
Illya shook his head, letting his tongue make a sound very much like tsk, tsk, tsk. It eased his pain only slightly.
“Come on, Napoleon. We need to get out of here. You can straighten your crease later.”
The two men walked silently to the door that opened to a steep staircase to the main floor. It wasn’t locked, which meant, most likely, that Veronica and her men had left the house. Cautiously opening the door, they looked up into a dark space with no light at all.
“Going up?”
Napoleon took the hint and led the way upstairs.
To Be Continued...
Having been dispatched to San Francisco on a mission to retrieve information of an undisclosed nature, Solo and Kuryakin were now grievously devoid of not only the mission but their weapons and communicators as well. The young woman who had lured them here with promises of secret THRUSH documents had managed to bat her eyelashes and flirt until that distraction had netted her two roughed up UNCLE agents. The two thugs who worked for Veronica Revere were, in addition to being very big, wizards with a roll of duck tape.
The two top agents in the Northwestern Region sat in a cold basement of the spooky old house, wrapped up like parcels waiting to be mailed. Illya’s black jeans were dirty, his turtleneck ripped so that a bruised shoulder was exposed. He didn’t actually remember the battle, but as usual the scars were evident. His hands were behind his back, securely fastened with the aforementioned duck tape. The blond’s ankles were also wrapped tightly.
Napoleon was similarly trussed, his suit a sad and battered image of the formerly impeccably tailored garment. He couldn’t possibly be blamed for this. It was as though the enemy targeted Solo’s suits; as though they knew Waverly was watching.
“I wonder how we’re going to get out of this one, tovarisch?”
Illya glared at his partner, a scowl was not far off.
“If you had simply resisted the impulse to flirt with that woman, Napoleon… I need some sort of remote, so I can turn you off.”
“Hey, I can’t help it. Besides, you didn’t exactly refuse her flirtations, Illya. As I recall, when she sidled up next to you …”
The Russian’s blue eyes warned of an approaching storm.
“All right, that’s enough. What we need is a plan, and as I recall that is your forte’. So, do you have one?”
Napoleon attempted to feign indignation but it was no use. The ambiance was lacking.
“Not exactly, save the one where you wiggle out of your duck tape bonds and then cut me loose. Is that not what you’re going to do?”
Illya shook his head. It was always up to him. Always. And so he went to work, contorting his body so that his hands could slide beneath his rear end and legs. He managed it, although his shoulder felt oddly out of place and the process became so painful he thought he might pass out. Napoleon noted the change in his friend’s complexion, the sudden palor.
“Come on, Illya … “
Solo winced at the pain he knew Illya was experiencing. Finally the process of disengaging was completed and Illya fell back against the concrete wall.
“Are you all right? That looked like it hurt.”
Without swearing out loud, Illya convinced his partner that it had indeed hurt and if Solo so much as winked at a girl after this he might find himself in serious trouble from the Russian. Amazingly he did that without any words passing his lips.
With a great deal of effort the injured agent was able to get himself up off the floor and go in search of something to cut the tape that encased his wrists and ankles. That the search was done in a hopping fashion was the source of some amusement to his still bound partner, although he was careful to conceal it.
Finally, and with the occasional grunt of discomfort, Illya located a small hacksaw with which he cut the tape on his ankles and then, proving once again his remarkable dexterity, managed the duck tape on his wrists. Free at last, he was able to better inspect the damage to his shoulder, at least as well as he could by rotating it and feeling it with his right hand.
Napoleon waited not to patiently while this self-examination was in progress, anxious himself to be free.
“So, any time tovarisch.”
The smile was a platitude, and the Russian remembered, once again, the outrageous flirtation that had occurred just moments before the first goon threw him against the wall. That moment of impact is what was causing him so much pain at present.
“I should let you sit there while I go search the house.’
Napoleon cocked his head to one side, as though he hadn’t heard correctly.
“However, since my shoulder is quite painful and I shouldn’t like to encounter another of Miss Revere’s henchmen…”
The blond knelt down in front of his partner and with some difficulty, sawed a sufficient rip in the duck tape for Napoleon to pull it free, then repeated the process for his wrists. When the American was completely free he stood and attempted to straighten his suit. It was no use.
“I can’t believe I’m going to need to report the loss of another suit.”
Illya shook his head, letting his tongue make a sound very much like tsk, tsk, tsk. It eased his pain only slightly.
“Come on, Napoleon. We need to get out of here. You can straighten your crease later.”
The two men walked silently to the door that opened to a steep staircase to the main floor. It wasn’t locked, which meant, most likely, that Veronica and her men had left the house. Cautiously opening the door, they looked up into a dark space with no light at all.
“Going up?”
Napoleon took the hint and led the way upstairs.
To Be Continued...
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Date: 2013-05-01 02:22 am (UTC)